Tinker led the way into the shed and switched on the light. Molly accompanied them, tail thumping against Tinker’s leg, apparently barked out for the present.
‘This is my place,’ Tinker confided, suddenly shy. If Tom was surprised at the contrast between the opulent townhouse and this spartan accommodation, he gave no sign of it, merely taking in the narrow iron bed, the single chest of drawers, the iron hook on the back of the shed door and the single window looking out onto the back garden. On a small desk in the corner was the crystal set. Tinker leaned forward and turned the knob. There was a faint hum as the innards came to life. Tinker fiddled with the other knob until conversation appeared to be happening somewhere. It was like listening to someone talking at the bottom of a full bathtub, but words could definitely be heard in there somewhere. Tinker frowned and twiddled the knobs again. Tinny music began to emerge, as if at the end of a long tunnel.
‘There you go, mate. Have a play with it.’
Tom carefully approached the crystal set as though it were one of the fiercer animals and twiddled one of the knobs. With a good deal of coaxing, he managed to restore the music. The boys exchanged a glance. ‘Tinker, that’s really clever. How did you manage it?’
Tinker gave a faint grin. ‘Mr Butler helped me a bit. But it’s just cabinet-making, a circuit drawing, some parts and a soldering iron. It’s not hard.’
‘How does it work?’
Tinker sat down on his bed and indicated the wooden chair. ‘Take a seat, Tom,’ he suggested. Then, as the boy sat, he went on, ‘Look, mate, I’m happy to explain it all some time, but that isn’t actually why I asked you here.’
Leaden silence descended on the room like a cloud of doom. Even Molly crouched down on the concrete floor and looked up at Tinker for instructions. Without a word, Tinker took the capacitor from his pocket and handed it to Tom, who stared at it as though it were a poisonous reptile.
Finally, Tom broke the silence. ‘Yair. I did wonder what had happened to it.’
‘You dropped it under Claire’s window, didn’t you, Tom?’
Whatever colour Tom’s face had held now vanished. He looked as pale as a calico sheet and hung his head. ‘Yair.’
‘And here’s the bit I haven’t told you: I was the one who found her body down at the docks. So if you’re wondering what business this is of mine, well, now you know. I think you oughta tell me all about it.’
Tom shook his head in naked horror. ‘I didn’t kill her! She fell and hit her head!’
‘No, Tom. Go back a bit. I know how youse two use to meet—I mean with the ladder and everythin’. And I know she was, well, expecting a baby. Your baby. What I want you to explain is how she came to be down at the docks.’
Molly’s head was now stretched out on the cool floor. Whatever her human was doing sounded important. Even more important than playing with his dog. She could wait this out.
Tom put his head in his hands and moaned. ‘Oh, no! Going there was my idea, because she said she had something important to tell me, and we didn’t want to be seen together yet. So I suggested we meet under the clocks at Flinders Street.’
‘When was this?’
‘We said ten o’clock, when there wouldn’t be anyone about.’
‘Ten at night?’
‘Yair. And we started walking. And …’
‘And?’ Tinker’s voice was soft, endlessly patient, and prompting. ‘What happened next?’
‘So we started walking. All down Flinders Street. At first she was just talking about how we’d be together forever—how we’d get married and all that.’
‘What did you think, Tom?’
‘I was scared.’
‘Yair. Reckon you would be. Go on.’
‘And then, when we were standing on the dock, she told me.’
‘That she was expecting?’
Tom nodded, now struck mute.
‘Tom, yer can’t stop there. Keep goin’. Ya gotta tell me. Cos I found her, mate, and I need to know how she finished up floatin’ in the water.’ Tinker turned off the tinny music. ‘Come on, Tom. Tell me.’
Tom’s fists bunched over his eyes and he let out a long groan of pain. ‘And she said, “Will you marry me, Tom?”’
‘And?’
‘And I said no!’ Tom’s voice was now a dismal howl. Molly lifted herself up and rested her head in Tom’s lap. Automatically, he began to stroke Molly’s ears and neck, and Molly’s tail began to thump against his trouser leg.
‘D’ya wish ya’d said yes now?’
‘Yes. I liked her. A lot. But it was all too much at the time.’ Tears were streaming down his face.
‘All right. So what happened next?’
‘I never touched her, I swear. She was yelling at me, and pacing around, and she—she lost her footing.’ His voice sank into a whisper. ‘And she tumbled down the steps, and hit her head on one of them. Then she fell into the water.’
‘Did ya leave her there?’
‘No! I ran down the steps and grabbed her. But she wasn’t breathing. I checked her pulse and there was nothing there. She was already dead.’
‘How long did you stand there holdin’ her?’
‘A few minutes. I’ve done that first-aid course. I tried to get her breathing again but nothing worked!’ He shook his head, a picture of desolation. ‘Nothing worked.’
‘And then?’
‘I let her slip back into the water. It was so stupid. I don’t know why I did it. I should’ve owned up. But I was so scared.’
‘Not surprisin’. All right.’ Tinker stood. ‘Tom, there’s somethin’ else I didn’t tell yer: the cop who’s leading the investigation thinks it was her uncle who killed her.’
‘Why would he think that? That’s crazy! Oh.’ Tom’s face turned cherry red. ‘No, surely he couldn’t think that, could he?’
‘He does, mate, because ’e’s not very bright. You have to talk to the cops, so the uncle doesn’t get charged.’
Tom hunched his shoulders and shivered. ‘Yair. I suppose I’ll have to.’
‘Want to know somethin’? The smart cop on the case lives here. And I want ya to talk to ’im as soon as possible.’
More tears flooded down Tom’s cheeks.
‘Sergeant Collins is a beaut bloke. Tell ’im what ya told me and you’ll feel better.’
‘All right. But I’d better call home first. Mum’ll be worried about where I am. Is there a telephone?’
‘Yair, there is. But I’m gonna call the sergeant first. If yer lucky, you might get home for tea.’
Summoned by Tinker, Hugh Collins was home in fifteen minutes.
He sat on the bed in Tinker’s shed and listened as Tom retold the story. He said nothing until Tom finally ran down, then he turned to Tinker. ‘Is this the same story he told you?’
‘Yair.’ Tinker was about to add that he believed every word, but stopped himself in time.
Hugh gave Tom a long, steady look.
‘Thomas, this is very bad. But it might not be as bad as you think. I am not making any promises. I will need a sworn statement down at the station, and your parents need to be there. Do they know about this?’
The look of terror on the suspect’s face was more eloquent than words.
‘So what you do is this. Ring your parents now. Do they have a car?’
Tom nodded.
‘Tell them to meet you at City South police station, and that you’ve got something important to tell them. Then you make your statement, in their presence, and I’ll take it from there. Understood?’
Tom rose unsteadily to his feet and nodded again.
As he left the shed, Hugh Collins clapped Tinker on the shoulder. ‘Well done, mate,’ he whispered. ‘I’m proud of you.’
Next morning dawned bright and full of promise. Morag McKenzie, having made herself a cup of tea and a piece of toast, sat in her chair on her front verandah with her dogs and sighed contentedly. Currently she had only two runaway wives on her hands: her
niece-in-law Janet and Mrs Pollock. Her other refugees had gone away, very properly regarding her house and land as a purely temporary expedient. What they all wanted, more than anything else, was time and space. Given these things, and a feeling of safety and security they had probably never known in their whole lives, women were perfectly capable of making sensible arrangements for their own futures. There would be relatives who could be persuaded to take in folk in distress who could work and earn their keep. And this was what had happened. There had been some difficulty with Mrs Walker, who had shown every inclination to outstay her welcome and had, moreover, all the survival skills of a dandelion in a snowstorm. Some stern words of encouragement had produced her elder brother Michael, who took her away with him—to what fate none could foresee. But Morag, who had very little time for men in any form, judged that this one was a good deal better than most and would look after her.
Janet was different. She was a wonder in the kitchen, and cleaned house and managed things with quiet, calm efficiency. She earned her keep without fuss several times over. As far as Miss McKenzie was concerned, she could stay as long as she wanted to. That drunk mongrel of a husband wasn’t fit to polish her shoes. If he ever turned up to reclaim his wife and son, there would be harsh words, and harsher consequences.
Suddenly the dogs looked up. There was a man wandering towards her with his brain clearly at half-mast. He appeared unarmed, but he had opened her gate without leave—and committed the unpardonable solecism of Failing to Shut It Behind Him—and now trekked along her pathway straight towards her.
He stopped about ten yards from her verandah. She remained sitting where she was, with a hand on the neck of one of her dogs. ‘Where’s my wife?’ he demanded, swaying somewhat in the light breeze. ‘Her name’s Frances Pollock and she belongs at home. Where is she?’
‘No one of that name here, mister.’
He glared at her. ‘I don’t believe ya. I’m gonna look for meself.’
She stood up and grasped her shotgun in her skinny arms. ‘No you ain’t, son. You’re goin’ home right now. Get off my land.’
The dogs also rose and growled. It was a sound that echoed in the hindbrain and spoke of primitive, cave-dwelling bipeds and the fear of giant, razor-toothed predators. But Pollock was too angry to pay any attention. ‘You wouldn’t shoot me. Ya wouldn’t dare!’
‘Suit yerself,’ she answered in a hardened monotone. She raised the gun to her shoulder and aimed it right at his head. As he made a move to advance on her, she called out ‘Wait!’, lowered the barrel, and shot him on the lower leg. As he collapsed to the dry, scrubby dirt, she walked forward, leaned over him and smiled. ‘Lucky you didn’t ride that poor underfed horse o’ yours or I’da shot you in the head, son. Can’t go hurtin’ dumb animals just ’cos their master’s a witless drongo.’ The two dogs stood up, preparing if necessary to administer further chastisement, and showed their teeth.
Now that the immediate shock had worn off, the impact of a well-filled cartridge full of shot had begun to make itself felt. Agonised moans and oaths filled the air, and she grinned again. ‘All right, son. I’ll bring out me truck and you can get in the back. Yer not going in the cabin. I’m takin’ youse into town and we’ll get ya fixed up. And remember—’ she leaned over the recumbent figure ‘—I’ve still got another shot. And if youse don’t behave I’m gonna blow your head right orf.’
Pollock, the eternal proponent of the Helplessness of Woman, looked into her dark, grim eyes and found himself believing otherwise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
One Moment in Annihilation’s Waste,
One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste—
The Stars are setting and the Caravan
Starts for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!
Edward Fitzgerald,
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám of Naishápúr
Phryne awoke refreshed and content. Her bed was just right, she decided. Not too hard and not too soft. Goldilocks would have loved it. The bewitching scent of coffee wafted up the stairway, but Phryne decided it could wait. She doffed her silk pyjamas and assumed a cream ensemble of blouse, jacket and skirt, with patent leather shoes instead of boots. She was expecting neither alarums nor excursions today. She lit a quiet cigarette and held silent colloquy through the open window with a kookaburra, which chirruped hopefully at her in plain search of something edible. ‘Sorry, little friend,’ she told her companion. ‘Unless you like tobacco or gin, I haven’t a thing to offer.’
The kookaburra considered this statement, then flew away into the trees. Phryne considered her morning. If she was right, and she was fairly certain she was, then she had two clear days to relax and finally have that holiday she’d been intending. On the other hand, there was nothing to stop her dropping by the police station to pass the time of day. It had given Phryne some satisfaction to see Inspector Kelly elbow the local flatfoot out of his desk and send him out to menial duties around town. Sergeant Offaly had not endeared himself to anyone, it seemed. Had there been a local popularity contest, he would not have been in the running for a podium finish.
Phryne paused at the breakfast table long enough to drink a cup of espresso, wave to Alice—who was more radiant than ever in a pale blue dress and crocheted shawl of purest white—and admire Dot’s quietly modest demeanour at the breakfast table.
‘Miss, what are we doing today?’ the latter enquired.
‘Dot, I am hoping for a day of quietude and peace. I would, in fact, be more than happy to experience a day of unparalleled tedium, if such a thing were indeed possible in these heavenly surroundings. Anything you would like to do, please let me know and I shall accommodate you.’
Dot thought this over. ‘Actually, Miss Phryne, I think the same. It’s been all go ever since we got here, hasn’t it?’
Phryne inclined her head.
‘So I’d like to sit in the garden and read a book. Some knitting, maybe?’
‘That sounds like a truly splendid plan, Dot. I’m going to run into town to see the good inspector and find out if there’s any news, though I’m not expecting any. I’ll be back for a lunch. A quiet afternoon in the garden sounds wonderful.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps later on I’ll go to see the Captain again—possibly for dinner.’
Dot coloured somewhat, which did not match well with her brown-on-beige ensemble. She could guess at her employer’s intentions now that Captain Spencer was cleared of all suspicion, and this came under the general heading of Things She Did Not Think About. So much for unparalleled tedium! But that was Miss Phryne’s way, and Dot accepted it in the same way she accepted the existence of thunderstorms and earthquakes.
‘Very good, Miss.’
Phryne cranked up the Hispano-Suiza and proceeded into Daylesford. It was a glorious morning with a hint of humidity in the air, but it was delightfully cool and sunny, with fluffy white clouds wafting across the sky with not a care in the world. Phryne hummed to herself and parked the car near the police station. Where she opened her mouth into a small, ruby-lipped O of surprise. For things were happening at the customarily sleepy cop shop. There was a male voice, loud in lamentation and protestations of injustice. Other low voices could be heard within. One was definitely Inspector Kelly’s Aussie drawl. There was also Sergeant Offaly’s Irish blarney, calling for calm and silence. And there was a third which seemed vaguely familiar: low, rasping and quietly belligerent.
Phryne spotted an open window and slipped quietly beneath it. She had not had any opportunity to eavesdrop on any private conversations on this trip, and the chance was far too succulent to miss. Nor was she disappointed.
The first voice she identified was Sergeant Offaly. ‘All right, you, settle yourself down now! This is a decent police station, not the public bar at the Station Hotel! Don’t you be carryin’ on like a two-bob watch, Pollock. Just you answer the inspector’s questions and let’s be havin’ none of your lip. Understand?’
There was a vague muttering from s
omeone—presumably Pollock—then Mick Kelly called the meeting to order. ‘Suppose you start at the beginning, Pollock. What were you doing on Miss McKenzie’s property?’
Phryne gasped, and all but gave herself away. Fortunately, any sound of surprise from her was drowned out by the loud voice of Mr Pollock, who spoke in tones of rancorous grievance.
‘I found out where my missus was hiding so I went to fetch her back. And that bitch bloody well shot me! Why aren’t you charging her?’
‘All things in their proper time, Pollock.’ This was Kelly again. ‘So why did you think your wife was on Miss McKenzie’s property?’
There was a snarl, as if Pollock had a foot caught in a rabbit trap. ‘Bloke at the pub told me.’
‘I see. And you always believe what the blokes at the pub say, don’tcha?’
‘Well, sometimes.’
‘Well, sometimes. Now you listen to me, Pollock. Your missus is gone, and I doubt she’s comin’ back. She isn’t at Miss McKenzie’s property. Even if she had been, she wouldn’t be there now, would she? So on the basis of a wild rumour you heard down the pub, you went off trespassing on someone else’s land, and they saw you off. That right?’
‘With a bloody shotgun! She shot me in the foot!’
‘Lucky for you it wasn’t yer big mouth. All right, Sergeant, put this bloke in a cell and go and get Dr Henderson. Tell ’im I want ’im here in fifteen minutes.’
‘What? You can’t lock me up! You should be lockin’ ’er up, not me!’
‘The charges will be trespass, public nuisance, assault, uttering threats in a public place and anything else we can think of. Pollock, I’d like you to think of this as protective custody. It’s for your own good, son. You’re causin’ me trouble, and I don’t like trouble. When I see trouble, I spread it around. Go on! Off you go.’
Death in Daylesford Page 24